Making Friends and Forming Alliances
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary Morstan and Molly Hooper join forces. These chapters intersperse the other stories in my Mary Morstan series. Please note the intro to each chapter to keep track of the chronology.
1. Molly and Mary

This story takes place between "Mary" and "One to Spare". If this works, I may add more chapters to make a "Mary and Molly" saga. I welcome any ideas.

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The door to the lab flew open, and she turned quickly towards it, her heart stammering in its usual arrhythmic panic as it always did in anticipation of seeing _him._ She always longed to see him when he was not present; but things were actually so arduous when he was here. Why did every minute she spent with him have to be so difficult?

But her visitor wasn't him. She felt such a mixture of disappointment and relief that she was unable to greet the intruder at once. Sherlock had texted that he was coming to look at the body that had just been delivered to her morgue. He hadn't mentioned that he was meeting John's current girlfriend here, too.

"Hullo," said Mary Morstan brightly, as if she were not the most disappointing sight Molly had seen all day. The most human-bit of Molly wanted very much to dislike John's new girlfriend. Mary was intelligent; she was pretty; she was self-assured and capable. And she was friendly and kind and not at all vain. So many good qualities in one small person. It just wasn't fair. She made Molly feel plain and clumsy and ridiculous.

"Hi," Molly returned automatically, tongue-tied. "I, ah, I wasn't expecting. . . . I mean, Sherlock didn't say . . . ."

"He probably doesn't know," Mary assured her cheerfully. "John texted me at work and asked me to meet them here. We had a date, but of course The Work takes precedence, doesn't it? And anyway, I jumped at the chance. I've been longing to see the place they call a second home."

"That's a first. I mean, John's never brought any of his girlfriends to St. Bart's before," Molly began, and her hand flew to her mouth in horror, afraid she'd offended this latest in the long line of John Watson's lady friends.

But Mary just laughed. "Don't worry. I'm well aware that John wasn't living in a monastery before we met. In fact, during the year before we starting seeing each other, I was a first-hand witness to the Lady-Friend Parade."

"That doesn't . . . doesn't that bother you?" Molly asked curiously and instantly regretted being so inquisitive. What was the matter with her? Her mouth seemed determined to get her into trouble with this woman.

Mary chuckled, unfazed. "Little did he know it, but I believe he was actually searching for me the whole time!" she confided cheerfully. "Now that he's found me, we'll live happily ever after."

Molly believed it. She'd seen the way John Watson looked at Mary; as if she were the most precious, most amazing thing in the universe. If someone ever looked at Molly that way . . . . Well, it wouldn't really matter, would it, unless that 'someone' were _him?_

"How long have you two been dating?" she wondered aloud. Hearing the answer was four months, she gaped at Mary. "Oh! That's a record for John, isn't it? I never thought he'd be able to keep a girl for . . . ." Molly blushed at her rudeness. _Do shut up, idiot_, she told herself, turning away in her embarrassment; but Mary was laughing, entirely un-offended.

"He's often said the same thing," she admitted cheerfully. "It's been a lot of work, convincing him that I intend to stick around. Being repeatedly dumped wreaks havoc on one's self-esteem. He kept me away from Sherlock for three months, he was so terrified I'd be frightened off."

Molly was happy for John; she really was. Although, to tell the truth, she'd never really given him much thought. He was a nice enough chap, but she'd rarely seen John without Sherlock, and when Sherlock was in the room, everyone else just sort of faded into the periphery. It was as if Sherlock were the only bit of color in an otherwise black-and-white film; he just drew all attention to himself, and everything else became relegated to being background setting for his drama. At least, it always seemed that way to Molly.

She was happy for Mary, too, in spite of herself. It wasn't Mary's fault she was practically perfect in every way, was it? And Molly wasn't a catty person. However much she might want to, she couldn't really bring herself to dislike someone for being too pretty, or too smart, or too self-confident, or even too well-loved. But what did really bother her about Mary was the way Sherlock treated her. As if she were—well, not an equal, but at least not a complete moron. How did she do that? How did Mary make Sherlock be nice to her?

"I wouldn't mind a tour while we wait for the boys," Mary was saying, wandering about the lab while Molly silently mused. She roused herself to be sociable and began pointing out things of interest, while Mary admired how well-equipped the lab was. But time stretched on and the boys still did not appear. Mary had begun looking repeatedly at her phone after half-an-hour had passed. Now she held it in her hand as if afraid of missing a call.

"I wonder what's keeping them," Mary mused.

Molly only shrugged. "They're always late. It doesn't matter. They know I'll wait here for them, however long they take."

A mischievous glint came to Mary's eye. "Let's get a jump on them, shall we? Let's go look at this body ourselves and do a bit of detecting while we wait."

Molly hesitated. She was the pathologist, after all. It was her job to examine the body. But she dreaded making Sherlock upset with her. "What . . . What do you think he'll say?" she whispered.

"Who cares!" cried fearless Mary, heedless of any danger. "What can he do to us? Whine and complain? Or yell insults? It's all only noise. Come on, show me where the morgue is. I'm dying for a bit of excitement."

Molly smiled, intrigued. She had met very few people who would call examining a corpse 'a bit of excitement'. Mary, it seemed, was a woman after Molly's own heart. They hurried downstairs and entered the morgue, chattering now like old friends instead of newly-made acquaintances, swapping stories about cases they'd worked on. It was a nice feeling.

In the morgue, Molly pulled the correct body and the two women set to work. Mary fell easily into the role of assistant, for the most part, often commenting on how well Molly did her job. She felt warmed by the encouragement. It was admittedly not common for a pathologist to receive compliments on her work. Occasionally, Mary would point out something of interest, and Molly was impressed by her new friend's depth of knowledge and perception.

Molly also noted, however, that Mary was checking her phone more and more often as the time went by. Now the boys were over two hours late, and Mary, although not visibly agitated, was exhibiting signs of stress. Molly wondered if John's perfect new girlfriend had a flaw after all. She seemed to have some sort of anxiety disorder. Molly knew that this information should not give her such a feeling of satisfaction. But Molly was only human.

"May I ask you a question," Molly said at last, taking a break from her work. Mary nodded. "Sherlock likes you. How did you make him like you?"

Mary laughed. "I don't think it's anything to do with me," she confessed. "It's all about John. Sherlock tested me thoroughly, mind you, to make sure I understood John properly before I was to be allowed to continue dating him. But after being vetted and approved, I think he sort of promoted me from the herd designation of 'potential source of annoyance' to 'extension of John'. He treats me the way he treats John because he sees me as a sort of 'John 2.0'."

Well, that was unhelpful, thought Molly. But it was an interesting insight. "'Herd designation'. . . . Do you think Sherlock sees _anyone_ but John as an individual?" she asked.

"Not most people, no, I don't believe so," Mary replied honestly. "I'm still new at this, of course; I'm still figuring him out." She put a comforting hand on Molly's arm. "And I know it's frustrating for you, Molly. I think he sees you as a part of St. Bart's." Molly smiled sadly. Mary was alarmingly perceptive.

"Like a piece of lab equipment, I suppose," Molly acknowledged without bitterness. It was what she'd suspected all along, anyway. "How did John . . . what did he do to merit being seen as an individual, do you know?"

"Saving his life, maybe. Being honest and standing up to him and calling him an idiot, more likely. John is the only person I know who isn't at all intimidated by him. When I figure it out, I'll let you know!" Mary chuckled. "I can tell you that being recognized by Sherlock as an individual is not always a positive thing. I understand that DI Lestrade's chief forensics officer has managed to make himself so obnoxious that Sherlock cannot bear to be in the same room with him. Most people, he can just ignore as a part of the background."

Molly sighed. She was part of the background of St. Bart's, she knew. But better that than to never see him at all. And where was he, anyway? Three hours late! They had finished with the corpse and now that they had nothing to do, Mary's anxiety level was rising. She remained outwardly cool and calm; but Molly was perceptive as well. She saw the nervous twitching of the fingers, the biting of the lower lip, the repeated, surreptitious phone checks. Hadn't John mentioned that he had met Mary through a case involving the mysterious disappearance of her father? All unseemly jealousy fell away, and Molly felt a wave of pity for the young woman, who apparently had an understandable fear of losing people.

At last the boys arrived. Molly felt that rush of panic she always experienced when he appeared and shoved it down, trying to keep control of her expression. She was determined to take Mary's subtle advice and try not to be intimidated by him.

For her part, Mary rushed to John and grasped his arm, completely failing to hide her relief that he was safe. Nothing was said and the display was not unseemly nor undignified; yet to Molly, at least, the signs were unmistakable. Yes, Molly thought with grim amusement. Mary was definitely not perfect. Fortunately, John seemed not be put off by severe separation anxiety disorder. Molly found herself hoping that he could help Mary overcome her fears.

"So have you two been becoming acquainted?" John smiled fondly.

"Yes, and I've found out that Molly's absolutely brilliant," Mary announced proudly. "She's got your body here all sorted out, haven't you, dear?"

Molly blushed. "I . . . I think so," she stammered, damning her tongue for never being able to perform correctly in front of _him_. "You know, the police . . . they thought the victim was a murder made to look like an accident. But it isn't. Wasn't. I mean, I think it wasn't. I think. . . I believe. . . . It's a suicide that someone's tried to make look like an accident." She began to point out the clues that had led her to her conclusion. Then she looked at the floor, waiting for Sherlock to tear her insights apart.

Sherlock was silent for far too long. Molly wrung her hands miserably, not looking at anyone. Then he finally spoke. "Mary's right, Molly. That was brilliant. I believe you've hit on the truth." He went on, indicating a few minor details that Molly had missed, but that just pointed that much more clearly to the solution to the mystery that Molly had outlined.

"Thanks for letting me watch you work, Molly," Mary said earnestly before she left. "Maybe we can work together sometimes. Just for fun." Molly found that she liked that idea.

She went home that night happier than she'd been in a long time. It warmed her heart that Mary, although in some personal distress, had deliberately drawn Sherlock's attention to Molly's talents in a way that made him appreciate her. Perhaps the day would come when she could be promoted to 'individual' in her own right. In the meantime, she had made a new friend and ally in Mary Morstan. She thought they might make a formidable team.


	2. Red-Handed Revisited

This chapter takes places immediately following my story entitled "Red-Handed". It might make more sense if you read that one first; but it isn't strictly necessary.

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"Have you heard what happened to Watson?" she heard Anderson say as he perused the contents of the folder he was holding. Molly looked up from her filing cabinet, pausing in her search for the additional records he'd come to request. She knew Anderson only by sight and reputation; knew only that he was Lestrade's forensics expert and that Sherlock disliked the man intensely. Now the look on his face made her skin crawl with dread.

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously.

"He got himself stabbed in the back this morning," Anderson told her with some satisfaction. "And you'll never guess who it was did the stabbing. Sherlock Holmes. I always said Watson would come to no good, following that freak around."

Molly stared at him, trying to make sense of what he had said. Sherlock, stab John in the back? It wasn't possible. "If this is some kind of . . . if you're having a joke, it isn't . . . ," she stammered, aghast.

"No joke," Anderson assured her. "I got it from Donovan, right from the scene of the crime. She and the Boss found Watson with a knife in the back, and the freak hovering over him covered in blood."

Molly's hand flew to her mouth to cover her horrified cry. "O god, is he . . . he isn't dead, is he?" she gasped.

Anderson shrugged, turning back to the report he was reading. "I don't know any details," he replied casually. "Although, if he had died, I imagine I'd have heard it through the grape vine by now."

Molly felt ill, wondering what kind of twisted, callous mind considered the death of a colleague as a "detail" too minor to inquire about. "What hospital . . . do you know where they would have taken him? Is . . . is Sherlock with him?"

Anderson looked up at her, smirking. "Oh, that's right, you're friends of theirs, aren't you? I have no idea where they took him. And I should think the freak would be in custody right now. I did hear that the Boss has been with Watson's latest tart all . . . ." His words were cut off by a resounding slap. Molly stared at the hand-shaped red mark on Anderson's face, and then at her stinging hand which had seemingly struck out of its own accord.

Anderson's shock turned into rage. "You little bitch! I . . ."

"How can you be so vile? You think . . . you think this is . . . is funny? Get out," Molly said tightly between clenched teeth, trying to control her shaking voice. "Get out of my office. And don't . . . don't ever speak of your betters in that. . . . that tone in my . . . my hearing again."

He hesitated. She drew herself up to her full height, her anger making her bold. "I'll call security. Get out," she pointed to the door.

"I haven't gotten the information I came for," he protested.

Molly's patience was at an end. "Oh, get out!" she cried, almost in tears. "Just get out!"

He left, and she slumped into her chair, tears now running down her face unchecked. She wept for John, who might or might not be dead or dying. She wept for Mary, her new friend, who was so afraid of losing people and who might have just lost the most important person in her life. She wept most of all for Sherlock. However this accident happened (and Molly had no doubt it had been an accident), she knew Sherlock would be devastated. John was his only friend; the only person he trusted. How must he have felt, covered in his best friend's blood, watching John's life drain away before his eyes, with Donovan standing over him accusing him of murder?

"What can I do?" she whispered to herself. "Whom can I ask?" She couldn't call Mary. What if John _was _dead? How could Molly call her friend and ask her to say those words aloud, into a phone? She couldn't call Sherlock, for the same reason. How could she find out where her friends were, so that she could go to them? Hadn't Anderson said that Greg was with Mary? Molly had the detective inspector's phone number in her mobile. They had gotten to be fairly well acquainted through their association with Sherlock and John in the past few years. Perhaps he wouldn't mind if she called him.

"Lestrade," his voice came, brisk and all business.

"Greg? This . . . this is Molly. Molly Hooper. I just . . . just heard about John being hurt?"

"Well, bad news travels fast, doesn't it?" he said grimly. "Yeah, John was stabbed in the back this morning. It was a near thing; he's been in surgery most of the day. But they have him patched up now. They say he'll be all right."

"Oh, thank God," Molly whispered. "I . . . is Sherlock. . . ?"

"He's been in right state," Greg informed her. "But he'll be okay, now that John's out of danger. Mary's taken him in hand. She's a marvel, Mary is!" Molly covered her mouth, overcome with relief. Her friends had been through hell, but they would be all right.

"Listen, Molly, I'm really glad you called. I need to take Sherlock home to get cleaned up. John's in recovery now, but when they move him to a private room, Sherlock will want to see him, and they won't let him, state he's in now. But I really don't want to leave Mary here alone. Would you mind coming and staying with her while I'm gone?"

"That's why I called, to find out where she is so I could see her," Molly explained. Of course, who she'd really wanted to see was Sherlock, but there was no reason to tell Greg this.

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By the time she reached the hospital, John had already been transferred to his private room. Molly joined Lestrade in the hallway, hovering by the door, watching Mary and Sherlock stand over John's bed hand in hand.

"He's not supposed to be in there," Lestrade confided to Molly in a low tone. "I'm the look-out. Mary figures we have about five minutes before a nurse comes by."

"What happened?" Molly breathed, not wanting the two in the room to overhear. She peered in at John, saw his ashen face; he was turned on his side and propped with pillows, the wound in his back swathed in bandages. His vital signs were clearly seen on the monitors, clearly heard as mechanical beeps; and yet Mary held her hand over his heart to feel it beating, as if touch were the only sense that could reassure.

"They were chasing a suspect," Lestrade murmured quietly. "Sherlock had a knife in his hand, a piece of evidence he'd found. The suspect gave John a shove—pushed him right onto the knife."

Molly nodded grimly. "I thought it must have been something like that."

"I've never seen Sherlock in such a state. He had a panic attack, then went into shock. Mary's the only one who could do anything with him. She's been amazing, she has," Lestrade continued.

They continued their watch in silence. Inside the room, Mary was speaking softly to Sherlock, still holding his hand. "You said something to me earlier. You said he told you not to pull out the knife, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes remaining on his friend in the bed.

"He was conscious, then?" She received another nod in reply. "How long was he conscious?"

Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "The entire time," he said hoarsely.

Mary's eyes closed for a long moment.

"It's a good thing he was, Mary," Sherlock continued bleakly. "He saved his own life, telling me what to do. I . . . I panicked. I would have instinctually pulled the filthy thing out of him if he hadn't stopped me. I would have killed him."

"Stop," Mary ordered him gently. "You saved his life by doing exactly what he told you without hesitation. He's the doctor, not you. You're not to be blamed for not having the medical experience he has. He's going to fine because you helped him." She took the hand she was holding and placed it over John's heart. "Feel that? He's alive. He's going to be all right now."

Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing himself to believe it.

"Now you need to go on and get cleaned up," Mary told him. "If a doctor came in here and saw such a filthy person in a sterile ward—oh, but wait: I AM a doctor! Go home, Sweetheart. We'll still be here when you get back."

He nodded and turned to the door. Lestrade and Molly stepped back, trying not to let on that they had been listening to this private exchange. Sherlock looked at Molly and almost smiled.

"Molly. Thank you for coming. Mary needs you," he said quietly. She could not stop herself from hugging him, he looked so lost. He did not hug her back, but neither did he reject her embrace. Then the two men continued down the hallway, in a hurry now to leave so that they might return the sooner, and she trailed behind them a bit, drawn with Sherlock like a leaf caught in the wind. But then she caught herself, stopped herself, and head slowly back to John's room. She was to be here for Mary. She needed to concentrate on Mary.

She and Mary had begun a friendship in the past two months, an alliance of sorts borne of their mutual dedication to Sherlock and John. They understood each other, and that had become important to her. Molly remembered Mary and John's engagement party-just four days ago, wasn't it? How happy they had looked together. How pleased Molly had been for them. She could not imagine two people better suited to one another.

But as she approached John's room, she saw the door was now shut. She peered in through the observation window, but she could not see Mary. Why would Mary not be at John's side? Molly grew worried. Lestrade had marveled at the strength Mary had shown all that long day. He couldn't know, not knowing what Molly knew, how truly excruciating the day must have been for Mary. Molly pushed the door open and looked around for her friend.

Mary was on the floor in a corner of the room, knees drawn up to her chin, her head hidden in her arms. She was violently shaking with silent sobs. Molly rushed to her side and dropped to the floor, sliding her arms around the suffering girl.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered. "My poor, poor dear. You've been needing to do this all day, haven't you, and didn't dare. Get it out now, it's all right. Molly's here." She cradled the sobbing Mary, rocking her gently and crooning comfort to her. They stayed that way until her legs went numb beneath her and her back ached; and she found she was weeping with her friend in sympathy so that they were soon one sodden mess together on the floor.

At last the storm subsided, and Molly helped Mary unsteadily to her feet, quite wobbly herself, and put her in a chair. She wet some washcloths in the adjoining bath and the girls spent a moment cleaning their red, swollen faces.

"I'm sorry," Mary gasped at last. "You didn't sign up for that, did you?"

"I did, actually," Molly said loyally. "I knew you'd need to do this as soon as the men were out of the way. You've been so brave all day. You don't need to be brave with me."

"Thank you," Mary smiled sadly at her friend. "I . . . I hardly know how to feel. I've been so terrified all day, and now I'm so grateful he's alive. Oh, Molly, I almost lost him. It was so close." Mary scrubbed at her face with her washcloth again.

"I know," Molly soothed. "But look at him. He's still here." They both turned their eyes to John's peaceful face, unaware of the tumult of emotions he'd been the source of that day.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then Molly asked, "Does he know? About your . . . problem? Have you talked about it?"

"My irrational fears, you mean?" Mary' dimples deepened. "Yes, we talked about it the night after that time in the morgue; you know, when they were so late. He saw I was upset and asked about it. He's so good. He understands what I need. I only asked that he try to let me know if he's going to be late. But every day when we're apart, every few hours he makes sure to contact me—usually by text. He always comes up with a legitimate reason—he's updating me on a case, or asking a question, or some other thing that just can't wait, so I won't feel patronized. I mean, we don't talk about it, but I know that's why he does it, all the same."

Molly teased gently. "You really picked the wrong chap, didn't you? You should be marrying someone with a nice, safe, desk job; someone who never runs risks or comes home late for dinner."

"Oh, it's my curse," Mary chuckled softly. "I can't bear boring people. I'm an adrenaline junkie, just like he is. The truth is, when I thought he was just an ordinary doctor, I wasn't all that interested in knowing him. But then he and Sherlock let me follow them around when they were solving the case of my father's disappearance, and I met the soldier. Watching the joy he took in the chase; seeing his steadiness and daring in a gun-fight; experiencing the excitement of his life—I was done for. Before we even started dating, the thought of losing him was just too painful to contemplate. If he'd never asked me out—if he'd ignored me entirely- I'd still be completely mad for him."

Molly nodded solemnly. She understood the sentiment only too well.

"I'm sorry," Mary sighed perceptively. "You didn't need to hear all that, did you? I'm so sorry."

"No, I'm fine," Molly assured her. "I'm always fine." Her candid gaze met Mary's wise one, and they sat in silent communion for some minutes.

"You're one to lecture about picking the wrong chap," Mary chided affectionately. "It is worth it?"

Molly challenged in return, "Wouldn't it be?"

Mary turned her eyes from Molly's direct gaze and looked at John, brushed her fingers through his hair. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, trembling. For a moment, she let her guard down, and Molly could see all of Mary's heart reflected in her face: respect and admiration, desire and friendship, and a sincere willingness to do anything for him, give anything to him without hesitation and without holding back. Molly wondered if a person could so easily discern all those feelings in her own expression whenever _he_ was in the room. But Mary's love was requited completely; would it be worth it to her if it weren't?

Mary turned knowing eyes back to Molly and nodded. "Yes," she said confidently. "It would be. HE would be."

Molly nodded, validated. "Okay," she simply agreed.


	3. Breaking and Entering

"That takes care of that!" Mary exclaimed triumphantly. "I am ready to get married." She smiled at Molly across the desk in the Baker Street flat. "Thanks for coming over and helping me with this. It's a simple wedding, and yet the details seem to overwhelm sometimes."

Molly chuckled. "Well, if you two weren't in such a rush, it might make things easier," she teased. "You've been engaged less than five weeks!"

Mary's dimples deepened. "When he asked me, he waited just long enough for me to say 'yes'; then he said, 'well, if we're going to do it, let's get it over! I'm not getting any younger.'"

"Does it really bother him, that he's . . . a bit older?" Molly asked.

"Sometimes, a bit. I think he feels he has fewer years left and he doesn't want to waste a moment of them. And it doesn't help that Greg keeps calling him a cradle-robber."

"Does it bother you?" Molly asked candidly. It used to embarrass her to ask Mary such personal questions, but no more. Mary was always quite forthright with her life.

Now her friend looked fondly across the room at her intended, who had dropped off to sleep, sprawled out in his armchair. He was recovering nicely from the knife wound he had receive four weeks before, but still tired quickly. The newspaper he'd been reading was now spread out on the floor at his feet, and his head had lolled back with his mouth hanging open, completely relaxed. "No, of course not," she replied. "Just look at him. He's perfect just the way he is."

Molly giggled. "Not, perhaps, looking his best just now," she suggested.

Mary agreed, chuckling. "But he's alive. That's all I care about at this point. Anyway, I'm glad the wedding is so close. He's recovered well enough that the wedding is the only thing that's stopping him from over-doing things. He'd be out there with Sherlock right now, running around and over-exerting, except for wanting to feel well for our honeymoon. And after a three-week cruise, he should be thoroughly rested up and ready for proper work when we get home."

She leaned conspiratorially towards Molly and whispered, "I do have something I need to talk to you about. But let's go down to Speedy's, in case he wakes up. I don't want him to hear."

Intrigued, Molly followed her friend out of the flat. Mary had moved into 221B temporarily after John's accident so that she and Sherlock could better care for him together as he recovered. Molly sometimes wondered if Mary appreciated how much she envied her.

"You get on so well with Sherlock, I wonder. . . I wonder that you don't just move in with him and John here, instead of John moving to your flat," Molly mused aloud as they found a table in Speedy's.

Mary snorted with laughter. "Don't get me wrong, dear. I am very grateful to Sherlock for all he's done while John's been ill. I certainly couldn't have taken care of him alone, especially since I still had to go into the clinic for eight hours every day. He's been wonderful. But honestly, he has no sense of personal space whatsoever! No idea of privacy or private property. He just sort of invades and takes over every part of our lives. And I know it's his flat, but really, his clothing-optional attitude is rather alarming at times." The young doctor grinned at Molly's now over-heated face. "Sorry, dear. The point is, if John and I are to have any life to call our own at all, we need a separate space. In reality, we'll probably not spend a lot of time there. John will be working with Sherlock full-time now, and I'll spend as much time as I can with them when I'm not at the clinic. Our flat will be more of a retreat than anything else, I imagine."

"Is that why you said that most of John's things will stay at Sherlock's?" Molly wondered, toying with the menu.

"He doesn't have much," Mary explained. "And he'll need most of his books and his tea-things, and even changes of clothes to be handy here while he's working. He'll probably spend more time here than he did when he lived here, to be honest, because he won't be doing shifts at the clinic anymore." The girls ordered coffee and sandwiches, and then Mary changed the subject to her problem.

"We had an interesting case at the clinic last week: an entire family with food poisoning. Both parents, two grown sons, and a daughter-in-law-the other son is unattached. We determined it to have been in some brie they had all eaten. But they came in immediately for treatment, and they were all recovering. And then, the daughter-in-law became ill again two days ago and died."

Molly made sympathetic noises. As a pathologist, she was overly-accustomed to death, but it never ceased to sadden her. She knew that Mary, too, had seen her share of tragedy, but the young doctor was still angered by senseless and preventable death. "Do they think something else in the house was contaminated?" she asked.

"That's what they say. But a team of us went into the home to test things—that's how we found out about the cheese—and we threw everything in the refrigerator away. The rest of the family claimed to have still felt too ill to eat much, but the daughter-in-law loved to cook and apparently prepared meals for herself. But here's the rub, Molly. I spent a lot of time with that family while they were being treated, and there was a lot of animosity towards this woman. Even her husband seemed to despise her. I thought at the time that they believed she was responsible for their illness, since she was the one who had prepared the meal using the suspect cheese. But now I wonder—could someone in the family have thought this might be an opportunity to get rid of an unwanted in-law? Or an unwanted wife? And once I starting questioning food poisoning, I started to realize the symptoms don't really match exactly, either. It's more like strychnine."

Molly pondered this information for several minutes. Their luncheon arrived, and she thoughtfully bit into her sandwich. "Have you . . . have you mentioned this to anyone else?" she asked at last.

"No. I don't have any evidence whatsoever. It's just a thought I had. But I can't get it out of my mind, Molly! How can I get married in three days' time and go off on my honeymoon without _knowing_? It will drive me mad, wondering if someone is getting away with murder. And the longer I wait to do something about it, the more time the family has to get rid of any evidence there might be in that house. I know that today they are all surrounded by extended family and friends, so they will have little opportunity to do anything sneaky. And tomorrow is the funeral. But after that—well, they could do anything they like, couldn't they?"

"Can't you tell Sherlock?" Molly suggested. "He'd love a good puzzle to solve."

"He's helping Greg with that embezzlement case. I'm so glad it's a quiet one that he can do by himself, so that John isn't tempted to get involved! That's the problem, though, Molly. If I get Sherlock involved in this murder case, I won't be able to keep John out of it. He thinks he's ready to get back into the game, but I know he needs more rest, and he doesn't need the stress of a case just now. That's why I need your help. If we can find enough evidence to convince to Greg to just open an investigation, I'll feel satisfied that at least I did what I could, however the case turns out."

Molly felt a sense of doom envelop her. She was not sure she wanted to know what it was that Mary had in mind. She thought it might be expedient for her to get up and leave before she heard any more. But somehow, she just couldn't make herself move from her chair. Mary's eager, earnest face held her in place. "What do you want to do?" she asked cautiously, against her better judgement.

"Like I said—they'll all be at the funeral tomorrow. They'll be gone most all day," Mary said suggestively. "So, I had a thought: we could do a little breaking and entering."

Molly's eyes grew huge. She leaned forward across the table and hissed, "Don't say that so loud! Mary . . . . Are you mad? We can't . . . ."

"Yes, we can. I was there before, with their permission, looking for the source of the original contaminate. I know where everything is. Look, I just need you to be the look-out. I'll do all the sneaking. And if we do get caught, Greg can pull strings for us. Or if he can't, Mycroft can," Mary assured her.

Molly was aghast. "Mary—you don't . . . don't really think you can just . . . just do whatever you like just because you have . . . important friends?"

Mary looked affronted. "Of course not. But I do think that I can do what I believe is right and expect my friends to back me up."

Molly looked at her friend, feeling like a mouse in a maze.

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She sat at the bus shelter, down the block and across the way from the house in question, nauseated with panic. She had absolutely no memory of how she had come to be there. She concentrated on breathing and considered every moment of not being sick a minor triumph. Beside her, Mary was the image of casual innocence, swinging her feet and looking a bit like a child, enveloped in John's coat. Molly wondered how she managed to stay so collected.

"Mary, if you're right . . . if these people are murderers . . . if they catch us in there . . . won't they kill us, as well? I mean, I . . . I would kill us, if . . . if I were a murderer about to be caught out," she stammered.

"Don't worry, dear," Mary assured her coolly. "Why do you think I'm wearing John's coat? He bought this with intent, you know. The pockets are perfect for carrying things in. Protective things."

Molly's throat constricted and she could barely breathe enough to squeak out, "You have John's . . . ." She could not make her lips form the word "gun".

Mary grinned ingenuously. "It's all right. He's taught me all about proper use and safety. He says I'm rather a natural at it."

Molly hoped she would not pass out. Across the street, a rental car pulled up and the driver approached the rather nice semi-detached that was apparently filled to the brim with plotting assassins. The St. John's Wood area had never seemed so sinister before. Soon, she would have to get herself off the bus stop seat and break into that lovely home. She felt quite dizzy.

"So, how . . . how do we get in?" she murmured to her companion.

"We'll sneak round to the back garden and you'll shield me from view while I pick the lock to the back door," Mary whispered confidently.

There were so many things to be alarmed about in that sentence that Molly hardly knew where to begin. She chose one and stuttered, "Mary, why. . . . why do you know how . . . how to pick locks?"

Mary had the grace to look abashed, an expression rarely seen on her face. "Misspent youth," she admitted sheepishly. "I was a bit of a rascal as a child."

"That isn't your fault," Molly stated loyally. "No parents to teach you right and wrong and all."

"That's just what I kept telling myself. And the school officials." The young doctor's face brightened. "It'll be easier for us now," she informed her friend in a conspiratorial murmur. "Look!" She reached into one of the coat's capacious pockets, and for a brief moment Molly was terrified she would produce John's . . . unmentionable. Instead, Mary pulled out a leather wallet and opened it to display a shining collection of lock picks.

"Mary," Molly intoned, so far beyond anxious that she now felt almost preternaturally calm. "Why do you own lock picks?"

"I don't," Mary twinkled mischievously. "They're Sherlock's."

"And he just handed them over to you, no questions asked?" Molly did not believe it.

Mary chuckled. "I pick his pockets when he's annoying," she explained candidly.

Molly hardly knew whether to feel more alarmed by Mary's audacity, impressed by her prowess, or envious of her frequent and casual proximity to Sherlock's person. Before she could react, the family they were spying on emerged from their house, dressed in their funereal best, entered the hired car, and drove away.

Molly tensed herself to rise, but Mary put a warning hand on her thigh. "Wait," she muttered. "In case they come back for a forgotten whatever."

As they waited, a thought struck Molly suddenly. "And you complained that _Sherlock_ has no sense of personal space?" she exclaimed in a whisper. "That's a bit pot and kettle of you, isn't it?"

Mary snickered. "Whom do you think taught me how to pick pockets?" she asked cheerfully.

Molly had often thought of life at 221B Baker Street as rather idyllic: evenings round the fireplace, sipping tea and reading; or sitting round the kitchen table, happily engaged in fascinating experiments. Now this vision vanished, replaced by a picture of a rather chaotic and Faginesque den of instruction for criminal activities: John as weapons instructor, Mary as professor of breaking and entering, and Sherlock as dean of thievery. Molly sighed.

When the street was clear, they boldly walked around into the back garden of the house in question. Donning surgical gloves, Mary picked the lock with alarming ease. "You go through to the front and keep watch. I'll get samples of everything I can find in the kitchen. All the food in the refrigerator was thrown out at once, of course. But there must be plenty of other sources that could have been tainted." She had a pocketful of evidence bags and set to work immediately. Molly, her own gloves in place, went to the front room and placed herself by the window that gave her the best view of the street. Time stretched on interminably, or at least it seemed to. In fact, it had been only a few minutes before Mary suddenly appeared at her side.

"I had a thought," the young doctor began.

"I wish you wouldn't," Molly objected.

"Wouldn't what?"

"Have thoughts," Molly sighed. "That's what got us into this in the first place."

Mary chortled unrepentantly. "I know! It's like a disease. Once you start, you can't stop! But listen, Molly, you know more about this than I do. We only think the poison was in the food because it was the first time. What if it wasn't? What else could it be?"

"It would have to be ingested or injected," Molly mused. "Food would be the easiest. But also the most obvious. And the most dangerous, in case someone else should eat it by mistake." She pondered on the problem a bit. "Oh! Mary! I caught your disease!"

"What? What have you thought of?"

"Eye drops. What if the victim used eye drops? No one else would want to use the same bottle. There would be no danger of accidents at all."

Mary was off like a shot, searching the bathrooms and bedrooms for bottles of eye drops. Then Molly saw a man approaching the house. "Mary!" Molly hissed anxiously. "Hurry!" She herself lost no time heading towards the back door. Mary met her there, and they slipped back out into the garden, locking the door behind them.

As it turned out, it was only the post arriving. They waited until the postman had made his agonizingly slow way down the street, and then strolled casually back to the bus stop.

They took the bus to St. Bart's, and Molly set to work analyzing the samples. Mary might have all the expertise in breaking and entering and stealing, but Molly could run tests more quickly than just about anyone. She began with the eye drop samples.

As Molly worked, Mary's phone signaled a text. Amused, she read her exchange with John aloud to entertain the pathologist.

_What are you up to? JW_

_What do you mean? MM_

_My you-know-what has gone missing. JW_

_Has it? Oh, dear. That's a bit not good. MM_

_So have Sherlock's lock picks. JW_

_That doesn't bode well, does it? MM_

_So, what are you up to, then? JW_

_Why do you assume it was me making things go missing? MM_

_I'm hoping it was you. Otherwise, we've been robbed. JW_

_You've caught me. Molly and I have been sleuthing. We're having a lovely time. MM_

_Oh, well, if that's all. When are you coming home? JW_

Mary looked to Molly. "I'm finished," Molly said. "And we were right. The eye drops are full of strychnine."

_We're just finishing up. I'm bringing Molly home for supper. MM_

_Good idea. We'll get take-away Chinese. JW_

"Assuming you want to come over," Mary added to her friend, and Molly nodded, pleased. Mary then called D.I. Lestrade.

"Greg, this is Mary. I'm calling to give you an anonymous tip," she said, grinning at Molly.

"Well, you're not very good at it, then, because I've already guessed who you are," Lestrade responded dryly. "Next time, don't tell me your name or use your own phone."

"No, no," Mary laughed, "I'm just being the go-between." She quickly gave him the name and address of the family and the details of what she suspected had happened.

"And this has nothing to do with you whatever," Lestrade wanted to verify. "You're just a messenger?"

"Greg! I'm getting married day after tomorrow. Do you really believe I have the time or inclination to go crime-solving at a time like this?" Mary demanded, struggling not to chuckle. Molly snorted with laughter at her friend's expression.

"Actually, I do believe it. But since you say this is an anonymous tip, who am I to say otherwise? As far as I'm concerned, you've been doing wedding things all day," Lestrade replied. "I'll check into it and let you know."

Molly and Mary grinned at each other. "Job well done, Anonymous," Mary said cheerfully.

"We didn't get killed!" Molly exalted. "Or caught!" She followed her friend out of the lab. Her idyllic vision of 221B Baker Street had returned, and she looked forward to finding out for herself what an evening at home with her friends could be.


	4. Typical Evening

This is in answer to a request to describe a typical evening in 221B Baker Street. Thanks for all the reviews and suggestions! I welcome more input into this series of stories.

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She followed her friend with much trepidation, unsure of her welcome here. She was with Mary, but this was, after all, not Mary's flat. It was Sherlock's. The fact that Mary was staying here temporarily did not automatically give her the right to bring just anyone into Sherlock's realm, did it?

"Hullo, Sweetheart," Mary greeted the back of a curly head bowed over a microscope at the kitchen table. A grunt barely acknowledged her entrance. "I've brought Molly home to dinner," she continued, unfazed.

"Hello, Molly," he intoned without looking up, and Molly felt flattered that he had actually spoken to her rather than grunting again. Then he held out an expectant hand. "Mary, I'll have my lock picks back now."

Mary dimpled. "Will you?" she chirped cheekily.

Now Sherlock looked up from his work, his face stormy. "You stole them," he accused crossly.

"And you told me I should practice my pick-pocketing," Mary reminded him unrepentantly.

"I didn't mean for you to pick-pocket ME," Sherlock complained, but without heat, as he turned back to his slides. "I meant for you to pick-pocket Lestrade. I was on a case today. What if I'd needed those?"

Mary snorted unsympathetically. "You were on an embezzlement case. I, on the other hand, was house-breaking. So who needed the lock picks more, I ask you?"

Sherlock now turned his entire attention upon her, his face changing from annoyance to delight in an instant. "Were you, now? And I understand you also stole John's handgun this morning. Turning to a life of crime, are you?"

"In two days' time, John's endowing me with all his worldly goods. I just sort of. . . . "

"Jumped the gun?" Molly suggested, feeling unexpectedly impish. The girls giggled together, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Molly and I did a bit of sleuthing today," Mary informed Sherlock when she had caught her breath. "I suspected one of my patients had been poisoned, but I had no proof. We had to break into her house to find some evidence. Then Molly came up with the idea of strychnine in eye drops, and there it was! Greg's looking into it as we speak."

Sherlock looked at Molly as if truly noticing her presence in the room for the first time. "Creative deduction, Molly," he approved, filling Molly with warmth. "You two show some promise, for amateurs." Then he added, with his hand out again, "I'll still have my lock picks back, Mary."

Smiling, she dropped the leather wallet holding the lock picks into his hand. "They work like a dream," she noted. "I knew you wouldn't mind my borrowing them for a worthy cause." He chose to ignore her impudence, turning back to his microscope.

Mary smirked at him, then turned to Molly. "I'm running John's you-know-what upstairs to put it away. I'll be right back." Before Molly could object, her friend had trotted up the stairs to John bedroom, leaving her alone with Sherlock.

Molly sighed nervously, wishing she could be more like Mary. Mary wasn't nervous around Sherlock at all. Oddly, Mary talked to Sherlock as if he were just anybody. Unlike most people, John's fiancée was not intimidated by the detective at all. His awesome intellect and penetrating gaze did not overawe her. Most of the time, she looked as if she were laughing at him; not in a cruel way, but the way one laughs fondly at a toddler who is trying something new and muffing the job.

"What. . . . what are you working on?" Molly stuttered, trying to start conversation.

"A case," Sherlock muttered impatiently.

Molly knew that at this point Mary would scold Sherlock for being rude. But Molly could not bring herself to scold. She looked at the floor, flushed and disconcerted. "Can I . . . help?" she asked at last, expecting him to reply that she could help best by shutting up. Instead, he looked at her curiously and said, "You could prepare the next slide if you like."

He explained briefly what he was doing, and by the time the now unarmed Mary skipped back downstairs, the two of them were absorbed in the work. Molly looked up and smiled gratefully at her friend, who winked at her and grinned broadly.

Mary started a fire in the fireplace, then put the kettle on and brewed a pot of tea. And Molly was in heaven. Evening in the Baker Street flat was just as she had always imagined: cozy and warm and interesting.

The street door opened and slammed shut, and John's voice carried up the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson! I've bought food enough for an army. Come upstairs and eat with us!"

"My sweet boy! You're so thoughtful," was Mrs. Hudson's muffled reply through her door. "I'll be up in a moment, dear." John trudged up the steps, the scent of various Chinese dishes wafting before him.

Molly noted that Mary did not even attempt to clear a space on the kitchen table, but just picked up the few items that cluttered the coffee table and set them aside on the floor so that John could put his many fragrant packages upon it. Once his arms were empty, Mary exuberantly filled them again with herself.

"You're looking so much better, Captain," she noted happily. "Fresh air did you good, did it?"

"And having a bit of exercise," he agreed. "I've had my fill of rest, I believe. How was your day?"

"Mary and Molly have been committing crimes together all day," Sherlock noted dryly.

"Well, as long as it keeps them out of trouble," John smiled. "Some women spend their days off running up debt on their credit cards or spreading gossip about the neighbors."

Mary began pulling plates and cups and saucers out of the kitchen cupboards and piling them on the coffee table as she explained in some detail how she and Molly had conducted their private investigation that day. Then Mrs. Hudson appeared and she and John unpacked the food from the bags and stuck serving spoons into the cartons.

Mary carried the tea tray into the lounge and set in on the desk. "Come one, you two, stop slaving over the slides and be sociable," she called. It took Molly a second to realize that she was one of the 'you two' Mary was talking about. Again she felt that warmth spread over her; Mary had paired her with Sherlock, as if they were . . . a pair. Molly rose and moved onto the sofa beside Mrs. Hudson. John was in his accustomed armchair, poking at the fire. She felt as if she were in a dream, sitting in Sherlock's flat having dinner just like a normal person dining with family. Well, perhaps not quite normal: a skull grinned down at her from the mantelpiece, beside a knife that skewered a pile of bills; books were stacked precariously on nearly every flat surface; a mannequin was hanging from the ceiling by a noose; and of course, the kitchen table was covered with toxic chemicals in vials and microscope slides. Still, it felt quite homelike to Molly.

"Come along, Sweetheart," Mary insisted, walking over to where Sherlock remained stubbornly gazing into his microscope. "You need to eat a proper meal."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock informed her firmly.

"I'm not at all surprised," Mary replied pleasantly, "after that stunt you pulled yesterday. I imagine you have a bit of a tummy-ache, don't you?" She turned to Molly and explained, "Mrs. Hudson and I made my wedding cake yesterday evening. I mixed up a lovely buttercream icing, then went downstairs to get the layers out of Mrs. Hudson's oven. By the time I came back up, half the icing was gone!"

"You exaggerate," Sherlock objected, and Mary sniggered.

"He tried to tell me it wasn't him who ate it, all the while smelling quite suspiciously of buttercream," she chortled fondly. She patted Sherlock's head and coaxed, "Come on, now, Sweetheart, you need some real food today to offset all that sugar." Grumbling, Sherlock left the table and threw himself into his armchair.

Molly was quite taken aback. Not only had someone dared to pat Sherlock Holmes on the head and call him by an endearing pet name, and he endured it; he had done as he was told, albeit reluctantly. Molly began to wonder if Mary were a witch or a fairy of some kind.

Mary poured out the tea and Mrs. Hudson filled plates as John regaled them with an amusing story about a patient he had once treated who was certain her husband was poisoning her, but as it turned out she was just allergic to strawberries. He told it so well that he soon had the women purple with laughter, and Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently and suggested that the husband had known of the allergy and had been feeding her strawberries on purpose.

"Quite possibly," John said agreeably. "To be honest, the woman was such a harridan, I would have been sorely tempted to poison her myself."

As he was speaking there was a knock on the street door, and Lestrade, file folder in hand, let himself in and was coming up the stairs just as John finished his story. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner," he began as he came into the room.

"Pull up a chair, Greg, and join us," John offered. "There's plenty."

"I'll get you a plate," Mary told him, bustling back into the kitchen.

"Don't mind if I do." Lestrade seated himself at the desk after greeting all present. "Mary, your anonymous tipster knew what's what, all right. I only just mentioned eye drops, and the mother-in-law spilled the beans almost immediately. Although, from what the family all said, I almost couldn't blame her for doing away with the victim. What was that word I heard you use as I came in, John? Harridan? That describes her exactly, from what they tell me." He accepted his filled plate from Mrs. Hudson with a polite thank-you.

Mary looked at Molly seriously. "Perhaps we should have left things well-enough alone," she suggested.

Lestrade looked from one young woman to the other. "Molly, do I have the honor of addressing 'Ms. Anonymous'?" he asked with amusement, and she colored with embarrassment.

"Not that I know what you're talking about, but if I did, it would certainly have been Mary's idea to investigate, not mine," she demurred.

"If I knew what he was talking about, it might have been my patient and my suspicions, but it would have been your deductive reasoning that showed us the answer," Mary said firmly. "If, in fact, we knew anything about this case at all."

"And I don't even want to know how you might have confirmed your suspicions, if, in fact, you had been involved; and fortunately I have no proof that you were," Lestrade said hastily with upraised hands. "I didn't notice any obvious signs of a break-in, mind you, so I have no reason to believe anyone did anything illegal today. But there were two unsavory-looking characters reported hanging around the bus stop in the St. John's Wood area today."

Mary snorted with laughter. "That's funny. We were in that area for quite some time today, and I didn't notice any unsavory characters about."

Lestrade smiled at her fondly. "Well, good. I'm glad to hear it," he chuckled. "We'll just have to be thankful for anonymous, civic-minded do-gooders."

As they were speaking, Sherlock had been looking through the file Lestrade had brought. Now he spoke up. "It wasn't the mother-in-law. It was the husband," he announced.

Lestrade looked at him, all seriousness now. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

Sherlock pointed out several discrepancies in the woman's confession, and Lestrade nodded. "You're probably right. She's covering up for her son. I'll get my team on it tomorrow. Thanks."

"You might have them look into a rash of petty theft that has been occurring in Baker Street lately," John suggested seriously. "Oddly, it started about the time Mary moved in."

"Don't even bother," Sherlock said observed wryly. "Lestrade would look the other way if Mary were discovered to be the next Jack the Ripper."

"That's Jill the Ripper to you, Sweetheart," Mary twinkled at him.

It was a typical evening at 221B Baker Street. Chinese food was consumed. Experiments were performed. A crime was solved.

Molly was indescribably happy to be included in it all.


	5. A Price Too High

This chapter takes place about two months after the last chapter of "John and Mary Go Out to Dinner." It may make more sense if you read that story first.

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"I may have inadvertently set your table on fire." Sherlock's voice reached them from the kitchen of Mary and John's flat. Molly looked up from her paintbrush with alarm and met Mary's eyes, which were crinkled in exasperated amusement.

"Well, then, it's a good job I put the fire extinguisher by your chair, isn't it?" she called back imperturbably through her dust mask.

"Ah." They could hear the sound of the extinguisher spraying. By this time, the acrid scent of burning wood and chemicals was wafting into the little spare bedroom, mixing with the smell of fresh paint that already permeated the flat. "That was foresighted of you, Mary," Sherlock commended her, just as the smoke alarm began to beep frantically.

"Not really," Molly's long-suffering friend sighed. "Just experienced. Please turn on the exhaust fan in the kitchen and take the batteries out of the smoke alarm." Amazingly, they heard the fan turn on and the alarm cut off mid-wail. Molly was once again struck by Mary's uncanny ability to get Sherlock to cooperate with her. Although she was sorely tempted to go into the kitchen to survey the damage to her friend's table, she followed Mary's example and stolidly returned to painting the walls of the little bedroom a lovely burgundy red while Mary trimmed the woodwork in an antique gold. Not for Mary's baby a room of pastels or primary colors. Her idea of a nursery looked more like what one would think of a Victorian parlor.

"Why do you let him conduct experiments on your kitchen table?" Molly wanted to know.

Mary smiled behind her mask. "He assures me they're necessary to this case he's working on. Who am I to say otherwise? I'm certainly not about to stand in the way of The Work."

"Where is your medkit?" Sherlock called in his 'this is so tedious' tone of voice.

"Oh, lord, did you burn yourself, Sweetheart?" Mary put down her brush and looked in annoyance at her paint-covered hands. She bustled into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag. "Let me have a look."

Sherlock's hands whipped behind his back and he faced her stoically. "It's nothing."

Not being fools, both women knew exactly what 'nothing' meant. Molly watched in fascination as Mary stood, her face stern, holding out one hand and Sherlock, a picture of resolve, looked his opponent in the eye and refused to comply. The stand-off lasted several breathless minutes as none of them moved. Finally, Sherlock sighed. "You're not going to go away, are you?"

Mary's mask moved with her smile. "No."

"I suppose it is expedient for a doctor to look at it," Sherlock conceded, and gave her his hand. Mary gently pried open his fingers and gave them a cursory examination.

"Well, no skin grafts this time," she reassured him. "I can treat this here. Molly, would you go get my medkit from under my bed?"

Molly, happy to have something useful to do, fetched the large, well-equipped medical case from John and Mary's room, while Mary scrubbed up. While she worked over Sherlock's second degree burns, she said to Molly, "What were you saying?"

"Oh, I meant . . . why doesn't he do these experiments at his own flat?" Molly explained. She had been glad to accept Mary's invitation to help her paint the baby's room and keep her company while John was out of town; she had been surprised when she arrived to find Sherlock ensconced in the kitchen with a mini-laboratory installed on the table.

"Ah," Mary nodded, not looking up from her work. "Well, you remember when I was kidnapped a couple of months ago? Those computer-crime chaps who were avenging their father? Well, John was quite upset by that. He hasn't felt comfortable leaving me alone since then." Molly thought of her examination of the body of Mary's kidnapper—the one with the neat, little bullet-hole right between his eyes. Yes, John had indeed been upset. "And now that we know a little one is on the way, he's even more concerned about my safety. He's so accommodating of my own little quirks, I don't mind indulging him with his. When Harry called and asked him to help her move to Dublin, he very sweetly asked me for the sake of his nerves to either go stay at Sherlock's or let him come here to stay with me. I don't want him to worry. I don't mind the company, anyway."

"I'm meant to be looking after you, not the other way round," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Mary looked fondly at him. "We're meant to be looking after each other. That's what friends do: look after each other. You dispatch any bad guys that attack us, and I'll administer any medical aid necessary. There, you're all patched up. Back to work with you," she patted him gently and returned to her own task in the spare room, Molly in her wake.

"You'll be a good mother, Mary," Molly said admiringly as she took up her paintbrush once more.

Mary snorted. "I've had a lot of practice lately," she observed. "The Captain says I'm too indulgent, though. He's the disciplinarian of the family. He thinks I let Sherlock get away with murder."

"Why didn't you just go to Dublin with John?" Molly asked curiously.

"Harry doesn't like me," Mary said bluntly. From the next room, Sherlock declared in an annoyed tone, "She can't dislike you. She's never met you."

Mary chuckled ruefully. "All right, then. She disapproves of me. Thinks I'm much too young to have a serious relationship with her very important and emotionally vulnerable brother. That's why she refused to come to the wedding. I suppose she thinks I'll get a new whim and move on eventually. I just wonder how long it will take before she realizes I'm not going anywhere. Perhaps when she finds out she's about to be an aunt she'll come around. In the meantime, it seems best just to avoid antagonizing her."

"Mary, did you know you were pregnant when you were kidnapped?" Molly wanted to know. She moved the step ladder along the wall and climbed up to paint near the ceiling.

"Heavens, no. Think how much more upset John would have been if we'd known."

Molly tried and failed to imagine the condition the kidnapper might have been in if John had been more upset.

"We didn't find out until a couple weeks later," Mary continued. "I'm nearly twelve weeks along now, can you believe it?" She absently-mindedly rubbed her belly, smearing paint on her smock.

"You haven't told me how John reacted when you told him," Molly prompted. She had been living vicariously through her friend for quite some time, now. Impending motherhood was yet another thing that Mary had achieved which Molly was so far denied. She did not resent Mary's good fortune in life, but she did want in on all the juicy details so that she might experience them at a remove.

Mary chuckled. "I never did. He told me." She looked up from the baseboard she was painting at her friend's incredulous face, her eyes grinning over her mask. "He IS a doctor, after all. I was exhibiting all the signs, apparently, but it was completely off my radar. I'd been told when I was sixteen that I'd never be able to bear children, so it just never occurred to me to consider the possibility. So I come home from work one day and he hands me a test kit and strongly suggests I give it a go. He's right about most things, my Captain," she said warmly.

"So then, how did Sherlock react when he heard the news?" Molly climbed back down the ladder to finish the bottom of the section of wall she was working on.

Mary snorted. "Oh, about like you'd imagine: with utter horror. He spent the next few days explaining to us all the reasons this is a terrible idea; all true and all completely irrelevant. I mean, what did he think we could do about it now? Anyway, the Captain finally was fed up and told him to stop it. 'You gave me a million reasons why I shouldn't get married,' he said. 'And now aren't you glad I ignored you?' Sherlock gave that some thought and then he said, 'It doesn't inconvenience me nearly so much as I had anticipated, most of the time.'" The girls laughed together companionably. Then Mary grasped her stomach with a look of pain crossing her face.

Molly was concerned. "Are you okay?"

Mary's tense expression relaxed. "It's just cramp. Happens when I laugh." She took the ladder Molly had abandoned and positioned it so as to access the lintel of the doorway. She had just placed one foot on the bottom rung when Sherlock's commanding voice rang out: "Mary, you will NOT climb that ladder. We had an agreement, had we not?"

Mary froze in place and sighed. "How did he know?" she muttered crossly, no longer climbing but not removing her foot either.

"Mary, I insist you comply," Sherlock said sternly. "I will not hesitate to call John if you do not."

Mary stepped down and backed away from the ladder. "Tattle-tale!" she complained.

"Reckless dare-devil," he countered tonelessly.

"I won't be naming the baby after you now," she called, her eyes twinkling.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear it," Sherlock replied sarcastically, to both the girls' amusement.

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Molly sat in the hospital waiting room on the edge of her chair, trying to control her nervousness. When Sherlock called her, waking her at 2 a.m., he had simply said that Mary needed her and instructed her to come immediately to the hospital. Now that she was here, she found that Mary did not need her now, after all—Mary was in surgery undergoing D & C for complications in her miscarriage of the baby. It was Sherlock who needed her, but she did not know how to help him. She did not know how to help herself. She felt tears tracking down her face. Poor Mary. Her friend, so afraid of losing people she cared about, had just lost someone she'd never even had a chance to meet; someone she'd only just found out about six weeks ago. It was so unfair.

Sherlock sat texting John and looking more and more uncomfortable. Molly tried to think of something to say. "Is he . . . is John on the way?" she said inanely. Of course he was on his way. John would run all the way home from Dublin if he had to, Irish Sea notwithstanding, to get to his Mary.

"Mycroft has arranged for a private jet for him. He'll be here within the hour," Sherlock said in a lifeless monotone. He looked up at her, his face a careful blank. "I promised John I'd look after her."

"You did!" Molly exclaimed, surprised. "You brought her straight here, just where she needed to be. What more could you have done?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I should have seen it sooner. She's been having pain since yesterday, since you and she were painting the room. She was in denial, kept saying it was nothing. Doctors are useless as patients," he muttered disparagingly. "If John had been here, he'd have brought her in yesterday."

Molly sighed and palmed away her tears. "You might be right. John's a doctor, he's trained to notice such things. But it wouldn't have made any difference, Sherlock, the baby was . . . the baby was already . . . gone. You couldn't have done anything to prevent this happening. This is not . . . this is in no way your fault." She dared to reach out and put a comforting hand on his arm. He allowed it to stay there, hardly seeming to notice.

He answered yet another text, frowning. "They text back and forth constantly but she never told him she was in pain. He's . . . angry." Sherlock was as distressed as Molly had ever seen him.

"He's not . . . he isn't angry with you, Sherlock," she assured him. "He's not angry with Mary, either, if that's what you think. He's just . . . angry . . . with the situation. It's normal to be angry when something like this happens."

Sherlock stared at the wall. "Caring is not an advantage," he muttered under his breath. "If this had been anyone else, I'd have been able to do what needed to be done without a second thought. But when John or Mary need me, I . . . . She had to tell me what to do. She was bleeding profusely and in pain and she had to tell me what to do."

Molly thought about the Accident earlier that year—when Sherlock had accidentally stabbed John in the back. John had had to tell Sherlock what to do then, thereby saving his own life. Sherlock had beat himself up over that incident for a long time afterwards. She tried to think of something useful to say.

"Relationships make us strong," she almost whispered. "Caring makes us human."

Sherlock snorted derisively. "My friendship with John and Mary has put them each in danger a number of times. They would be better off if they had never met me."

Before Molly could think of a reply to this rare personal confession, a nurse appeared in the doorway. "Are you here for Mary Watson?"

They both rose to their feet. "I brought her here," Sherlock said.

"Well, she had the procedure and a blood transfusion. She's asleep now, but she's going to be all right."

"May we sit with her?" Molly asked, weak with relief.

The nurse hesitated. "No one's supposed to go back there but next of kin."

"Her husband's out of town. He's on the way, but it may be a while yet. Please, we're all the family she has. I don't want her to wake up and be alone," Molly pleaded. The nurse relented easily, and they followed her to Mary's room.

Mary face was as white as the pillow her head rested upon. Her face was turned away from them as they stood over her in silence. Molly reached out a gentle hand and brushed the hair away from Mary's eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmured softly. "I'm so sorry, dear." She had the distinct idea that her friend was not asleep, although she was completely unresponsive. Molly stroked Mary's hair and hoped that it was a bit of comfort.

Sherlock, meanwhile, examined Mary's medical file and texted its contents to her husband. "Mycroft sent a helicopter to the airport to bring John directly here," he reported. "He'll be here soon."

"Good." Molly felt flooded with relief. She was glad to be there for her friend, but Mary needed John right now. And, she was certain, John needed Mary just as much. "Poor John," she sighed sympathetically. "Dealing with this all alone all this time. He must be half mad with worry. At least Mary had you to help her."

Sherlock was perplexed. "How does having people with you help?"

Molly wondered how to explain this concept to someone who clearly had little emotional experience. "People make us stronger. It's easier to cope with things when you know you're not alone."

"Alone protects me," Sherlock objected. "People complicate things. Make you vulnerable." Molly could think of nothing to say. She wondered what sort of childhood he must have had to have developed such a cynical and dismal philosophy.

At last, John rushed in, breathless, having run all the way down from the roof where the helicopter had deposited him. "How is she?" he demanded in a whisper.

"She hasn't moved since we came in here," Sherlock reported. "But she isn't sleeping."

John moved to Mary's bedside and sat on the edge of the bed. He stroked her face gently, and she began to sob. He took her into his arms and she lay limp against him, weeping silently, as he murmured comfort to her. He would be strong for her until she was well enough to be strong for him in return—then it would be John's turn to grieve.

Molly drew Sherlock out of the room respectfully, but they remained just outside in case they should be needed. They watched as John consoled his grieving wife. Molly realized then the main difference between John and Sherlock. John drew his strength from being useful. So long as he could be useful, he could cope with anything. Sherlock drew his strength from being in control. When events were out of the detective's control, he could no longer keep his own emotions at bay; and not understanding emotions, he was completely unable to deal with them. Molly marveled that Sherlock was capable of maintaining the few friendships he had. She wondered if she would ever be able to move from the fringes of his society as a colleague and become one of his few real friends.

The answer came immediately, much to her surprise. As she was musing on these things, Sherlock turned to her and said, "Thank you for coming. As you suggested, I believe your presence has helped me to cope, and I'm certain you helped Mary. You're a good friend."

Molly smiled sadly: a small triumph drawn from tragedy. The price was too high.


	6. Vicious Rumors

This chapter takes place during the stories entitled "His Spare Watson" and "The Watson's Revenge."

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"I'm surprised you didn't call Holmes and Watson in for this one," Dimmock commented to Lestrade as they surveyed the puzzling crime scene. "I mean, I'm happy to help out, but this is right up their alley."

"I would if I could, you can believe it," Lestrade replied sincerely. He had not wanted to call Dimmock for help, but this case was poser. "Sherlock's in Cornwall on a case. I don't know when he'll be back."

Donovan stopped what she was doing, her radar apparently tuned in to any Sherlockian news. "Wait. Isn't Watson at some big medical to-do? How can you let the Freak go to Cornwall without his minder?" she asked cynically. He knew that she kept up with John's blog, feeling it part of her job to know what the Freak and his friend were up to.

He smiled tightly. "John Watson is keynote speaker at an important medical conference in Edinburgh," he replied, as pleased as if he were the one being recognized. "You should be sure to congratulate him when you see him next, Donovan. It's a great honor." He was glad to see Donovan flush at his reprimand. "And as for Sherlock, he's not in Cornwall alone. Mary went with him. She'll keep him well in hand." Actually, he was glad that Mary had this distraction. He had been concerned about her since she'd lost the baby; she had not been at all her usual self. He was sure she needed a new challenge to help her in her recovery.

Dimmock was lost. "Who?"

"John's wife, Mrs. Dr. Watson," Lestrade informed him, as proud as any father could be. "I hope you meet her sometime, Dimmock, she's quite something. Pint-sized, but the most courageous, compassionate person I know."

"I didn't know Watson was married," Dimmock mused. "And she gets along with Holmes? That's hard to imagine."

"Oh, she's got him wound right round her little finger, that one," Lestrade assured him. "I believe he'll do anything she tells him."

"He's not the only one," Donovan muttered. He was well aware that, in her opinion, her Boss was far too enamored of the girl.

"What's that, Donovan?" Lestrade said sharply.

Donovan apparently decided to boldly speak her mind. "You lot seem to think the sun wouldn't rise in the morning if Mary Watson didn't tell it to," she declared flatly.

Lestrade grinned ingenuously. "What makes you think it would?"

Donovan turned away in disgust, ostensibly doing her job. But he had an idea that this animosity of hers would not end here.

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"Have you heard about the Freak and Mary Watson?" Donovan asked Anderson as they had a pint together in their favorite pub after work. Anderson shook his head, trying to seem uninterested.

"John Watson is being honored at some big medical conference. But instead of being there for him, his loving wife wastes no time going off to Cornwall with her husband's best friend. They're working on a 'case', the Boss says." Donovan used air-quotes to emphasize her cynicism.

"A 'case', eh? Is that what they're calling it now?" Anderson chuckled, delighted.

"Oh, there's more!" Donovan assured him seriously. "I have a friend that lives in the Lizard Peninsula. I rang him up today; it's a small place, and this case is all the news there. I mean, there really has been a mysterious murder. But he tells me that, rather than putting up in a hotel or an inn, the Freak and his 'assistant' have taken a cottage on the bay together. A one bedroom, vacation cottage."

Anderson grinned wolfishly. "Does Watson know his wife's stepping out on him?" he asked, relishing the gossip.

"If he doesn't now, he will soon. This case they're working is a big one, as it turns out. It'll be in the national news tonight." Donovan frowned, feeling conflicted. She hated Sherlock Holmes; she resented Mary Watson. But . . . "It's kind of a shame, really. I mean, Watson is a strange one, hanging out with the Freak like he does. But he really loves his wife. I kind of feel sorry for him. They seemed like such a happy couple."

"It was inevitable," Anderson assured her. "With them thrown together so much of the time, it's no wonder the Freak went for her. I'd wouldn't mind taking a 'case' with little Mary myself." He leered a bit. Donovan's frown deepened.

"What do you lot see in her?" she demanded. "You men are such push-overs for a pretty face."

"Oh, it's not just that," Anderson explained. "She's clever, and good with weapons. You ought to have seen her put together that estolica thing with a couple of sticks and some wire and such, all in a few minutes. And then she shot it with dead-eye aim. It was amazing!" He saw the murder in Donovan's eyes and backed down. "I mean, I don't care for her, myself. She's not my type. What I'm saying is, if the Freak were to fall for somebody, it would be someone like her. You know, brainy, and competent, and . . . ." He trailed off, intimidated by Donovan's stormy expression. "If you like that kind of thing," he added lamely.

"Bloody prat," Donovan said scathingly.

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"Have you heard about the Watsons?" Anderson asked Molly as he watched her examine the body in the case he was working on.

"What about them?" Molly asked with much trepidation. She could not express how much she disliked getting information from this man. His very voice jangled her nerves.

"They're splitting up," he told her with much satisfaction. "Watson no sooner goes off to this medical thing in Scotland when she takes off on a cozy little romantic get-away with the 'other man': her good friend the Freak."

"What . . . where on earth did you hear that . . . rubbish?" Molly demanded. She knew Sherlock and Mary were on a murder case in Cornwall—how did one interpret that as a romantic get-away? Of course, John and Mary had just experienced a tragedy in losing their baby; many couples couldn't survive that kind of stress. But the Watsons had, by all appearances, grown even closer as they dealt with their shared grief. Molly would have sworn by their commitment to each other.

"Oh, word gets around," Anderson assured her in a pompous tone. "It's all over the news. They've taken a one-bedroom cottage in the Lizard Peninsula together."

"Don't be so . . . filthy-minded. Mary and Sherlock are friends," Molly said firmly. "It's . . . idiotic to think that two people can't be friends without it turning into . . . something else."

Anderson chortled suggestively. "I wouldn't mind being a bit more friendly with little Mary," he admitted freely, then reeled back as a quick hand left its mark on his face.

"Disgusting letch," Molly hissed, rubbing her stinging palm. She felt like running for some antiseptic to clean her hand.

Anderson stalked out in a huff. He ought to have remembered that this one was a slapper.

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Lestrade was relieved when Sherlock returned to London. This latest murder case was wearing on him. He liked Dimmock all right, but the man was not much on taking initiative. He had to be led through a case one step at a time, and Lestrade did not have the time to lead him.

"Is Watson back from his conference?" Anderson asked, barely disguising his glee as he imagined the Freak and his friend brawling over Mary Watson. It would just make his whole day. He was visibly disappointed when Lestrade shook his head. "Oh, well. Maybe the subject of strife herself will come with the Freak. That could be amusing," he chortled. Lestrade glared at him.

"I wonder if Watson knows what they've been up to?" Donovan mused. "I actually kind of hate to think of those two splitting up. They seem so right for each other."

Lestrade was disgusted. "Look at you lot; so invested in other people's relationships. Mind your own business, why don't you? And anyway, I'll believe Mary Watson is cheating on John when pigs fly across the English Channel."

And then Sherlock arrived, alone, coat swirling, rushing about with his nose to the floor as he began searching for clues without so much as a word of greeting. Lestrade devoutly wished for a Watson—any Watson!—to humanize Sherlock's behavior.

"Nice to see you back in town," he commented dryly. He received a grunt in reply.

"Did you have a nice trip to Cornwall?" Anderson asked, chuckling. He was ignored.

"I hear Mary Watson went with you," Donovan said suggestively. "I bet she was very helpful, wasn't she?"

Sherlock stopped and looked from Donovan to Anderson and back suspiciously. "She was an able assistant," he remarked, and turned back to his investigation.

"Is that what you call it?" Anderson snickered. "I could use a little 'assistance' myself, sometime."

Sherlock stopped again. "Just what are you implying, Anderson?" he demanded, and the forensic specialist backed off, hands held up placatingly.

"Nothing, nothing," he assured the detective hastily. "It's just that, it's good to have someone around to . . . help. You know, with whatever you might need help with." He winked at Donovan cheerfully.

"That's quite enough of that, Anderson!" Lestrade snapped impatiently. He was at his wit's end with all this disgusting innuendo. "Another remark like that and you'll be out on the dole."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Wrapped around her finger, all right," she muttered bitterly.

"It was the second cousin, as you would know if you'd bothered to look at his right wrist," Sherlock informed him imperiously, and swooped out of the room.

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"Mary, this is Molly," the pathologist said breathlessly through the phone. "Have you heard the rumors going around about you and Sherlock?" Mary had not, having been back in town only a few hours, so a worried Molly was quick to inform her.

Mary could not stop laughing for a full minute.

It was a welcome sound to Molly, who had not heard her friend laugh so heartily since she had lost the baby two months before. It almost made her thankful for the fools who were spreading this incredible gossip.

"People are such idiots," Mary giggled, gasping for breath.

Molly, who had not believed the gossip for one minute, was nevertheless relieved. She had not wanted to believe the rumors, but they were so compelling; and who knew what a person consumed with grief might not do.

"Oh, that does drive me mad, though," Mary added, barely controlling her mirth. "I mean, why on earth can't two friends help each other and work together without it turning into a scandal? There must be some way to teach these morons a lesson."

"I slapped Anderson," Molly was pleased to volunteer.

"A good start," Mary commended her. "But we must do more. Let's put our heads together and think about it, shall we?"

Molly really hated it when Mary started plotting. She hated it more when Mary included her in her plots. And yet, this seemed to be good medicine for her friend. She contrived to whip up a plan of revenge for Mary that would not include herself.

"Excellent idea!" Mary cried, when Molly had finished outlining her idea. "Oooh, this will be lovely!"

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Lestrade was looking forward to this. John had been back from his conference for several days now, and he and Sherlock had agreed to meet him at a crime scene within the hour. A small crowd of his people had gathered—far more than was needed. It was rubber-necking at its very worst, but Lestrade knew the duo would be ready for it.

Mary had charged into his office that morning, full of life and good humor, asking for his help in teaching Sherlock a lesson. He had readily agreed, and had watched her with great amusement as she tied Sherlock's violin case to a chair in one of the interrogation rooms and put a kerchief around it.

"Is that meant to be a gag or a blindfold?" he had chuckled, and she laughed cheerfully, music to his ears.

"Both!" she exclaimed, taking pictures of it with her phone and sending them. Lestrade was pleased. He'd known that this trip to Cornwall would do wonders for Mary's spirits. She seemed quite like her old self again. And apparently John was doing better, as well, as according to Mary he had instigated this little joke.

And now, Lestrade was certain that Sherlock, John and Mary would not let this rumor-business go by without some sort of retaliation.

Sherlock and John bustled in, ignoring all and sundry, deeply engaged in an argument. "We had an agreement," John was saying sternly. "We agreed to share." Lestrade noted Donovan and Anderson giving each other significant, wide-eyed looks.

Sherlock bent over the body, refusing to meet his comrade's eyes. "We agreed that I would have Sunday through Tuesday with alternate Wednesdays and you would get Thursday through Saturday. Today, as you may have noted, is Tuesday," he said with great dignity.

John examined the corpse's eyes rather than look at Sherlock's. "You know I missed my turn last week. I was out of town."

"Not my problem!" Sherlock coldly claimed, whipping out a magnifying glass and peering through it at the victim's fingernails.

As they spoke, the room stirred around them. Whispers and nudges were exchanged, as well as certain sums of money. Snickers were hidden behind hands. Lestrade smirked. A perfect wind up!

John rose and faced his opponent, looking daggers. "You know, I only agreed to share mine with you because you couldn't be bothered to get your own," he declared flatly. "Legally, I have all the rights. I take back my offer to share."

Sherlock appeared incensed. "I paid you a considerable sum for my share!" he said indignantly.

This declaration electrified the very atmosphere, paralyzing all personnel in their tracks. Lestrade had to turn away, unable to look at all the saucer-sized eyes around him without giving the show away.

"I'll pay it back!" John snapped.

"I refuse to take it!" Sherlock returned coldly. They were now leaning in towards each other over the corpse, face to face, fists clenched. Donovan and Anderson's faces were a mixture of fascination and horror. "And shouldn't you consult with Mary before making such a drastic decision?" Sherlock added.

"Mary will agree with me," John said through gritted teeth.

"I contend that she will agree with me," Sherlock stated firmly. "She is much more fair-minded and generous than you."

The gasps throughout the silent room nearly caused Lestrade to lose control of his mirth. He could feel his face turn purple with the effort not to howl in helpless laughter.

He was saved by the appearance of Mary herself in the doorway. "Good lord, are you at it again?" she exclaimed. "I apologize for these two nine-year-olds! Ever since they went shares on that Xbox they've been impossible to live with."

Tears ran down Lestrade's face and he sat down heavily, weak with laughter. "Oh, the looks on your faces!" he cried incoherently. Around the room, money returned to original hands and faces turned red as feet shifted uncomfortably.

"Xbox?" Donovan was confused.

Mary nodded. "You know, a game system. They're hooked on the bloody thing. I am just about to toss it into the nearest skip."

"We thought. . . ." Anderson began, only to be sharply elbowed in the stomach by Donovan.

"It was the maid who killed him," Sherlock droned to Lestrade, ignoring the uproar around him. "Ask her about the kittens and she'll confess everything, I guarantee it." He whipped out of the room, John and Mary close behind, holding hands.

"Kittens?" Lestrade muttered, shaking his head. "Well, if you say so." Interestingly, he caught a glimpse of Molly Hooper through the doorway, giggling. Intriguing.

"Just friends, after all," Donovan murmured to Anderson. "I admit I am glad for John's sake. But—just friends? How dull."

"You should wish for friends like that, Donovan," Lestrade told her sharply. "I know I'm proud to call them friends of mine. You two should be ashamed, spreading such rubbish about. I don't know how you sleep at night, the way you carry on."

"I lie awake worrying that Mary Watson won't call the sun up in the morning," Donovan grumbled.


	7. Girl's Night Out

This chapter takes place soon after "Can't Manage Ordinary".

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She ought to have known that a 'girl's night out' with Mary would not be relaxing and uneventful. Molly pondered this fact as she lay face-down on the cold linoleum of the bank's lobby floor with her hands behind her head.

However, it was not really Mary's fault (was it?) that the bank they were in happened to be the target of a pair of desperate, armed robbers in masks. It was surely just a coincidence that these things happened when Mary was around.

"They just want money. They'll leave quickly once they have it," Mary whispered reassuringly, maddeningly unperturbed. One of the robbers was collecting handbags and wallets into a laundry sack while the other cleaned out the tills into a pillowcase. Molly handed her bag over willingly, not looking up, just wanting it to be over. She was not taking any chances. She thought about the sequence of events that had brought her here.

If she had not autopsied that body for Sherlock, (not her fault—what choice did she have?) she would not have found that key while cataloguing the stomach contents. If Sherlock had not examined the key (after it was thoroughly cleaned!) he would not have determined that it went to a safety deposit box in this bank. If Sherlock (perhaps this was Sherlock's fault. . .) had not called Lestrade, (or perhaps it was Greg's!) Sgt. Donovan would not have been sent to pick up the key and take it to the bank. That was when the oh-so-helpful John (John! Yes, this was all John's fault, wasn't it?) suggested that, since Molly and Mary had to pass the bank anyway on their way to the cinema, they could meet Donovan there and witness the opening of the box for Sherlock. It should have only taken a few minutes, and they should be long gone on their merry way to see a film.

The contents of the box were fascinating and suggestive. Mary had taken pictures of each item with her phone and sent them to Sherlock. Then the girls had left Donovan in the secure room to officially catalogue each item for her report. But as they re-entered the lobby, their plans changed in an instant.

"Get down on the floor," the man in the mask had demanded, waving his firearm at them. Already lined up on the linoleum were perhaps a dozen men and women and couple of children, prone with their hands on their heads. Some of them were quietly crying. One was praying in a soft cadence.

For a horrible minute, Molly had thought Mary was going to protest. "Get on the floor!" the second man had cried, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch. The girls got on the floor.

"It's best not to provoke them when they're nervous," Mary had murmured, as if trying to excuse her cooperative behavior. "They could shoot someone by mistake."

"Shut that noise!" the nervous gunman had yelled. Molly bit her lips. She had no wish to provoke anyone at all for any reason.

The sounds of sirens and squealing tires filled Molly with relief; but the feeling didn't last long. Mary sighed under breath, sounding annoyed. "Oh, dear,"

Oh dear? "What?" Molly breathed, hardly daring to ask.

"These chaps were just after the money. They aren't killers. Up until now, we were just an inconvenience to them. They would have taken their loot and left. But now that they've been surrounded, suddenly we're valuable commodities."

Molly's heart thudded in her chest. Mary was right. They were no longer simple robbery victims; they were now hostages.

The two nervous men had no desire to try keeping tabs on a crowd of people and deal with the police at the same time. "Get up! Keep your hands where we can see them!" one of them shouted, his voice quavering a bit. No one in the room was more frightened than the criminals. Molly was aware that this fact made them extremely dangerous. "Get into the vault, all of you! Wait, not you!" The manager of the bank was separated from the rest of the crowd. Molly and Mary followed the rest of the herd into the bank vault. The door was shut upon them, and Molly was rather disappointed that it hadn't made a ringing slam that echoed for moments afterwards. Instead, it closed silently and gently clicked into place. It just didn't seem to fit the drama of the moment.

"Everyone stay calm," Mary called to the milling group of frightened hostages. "We're all safe in here. After all, it IS a safe." A few chuckles helped to lift the suffocating cloud of fear that had fogged the victims' minds. "The police are just outside. They'll have things well in hand before you know it. Just have seat and we'll all soon be out of here and on our way home." Her confident air of authority soothed them, and they all sat in an orderly fashion. A few still cried silently, but at least they were not out of control.

"Don't worry," Molly's intrepid companion murmured in her ear. "We'll get out of this. I have an idea."

This statement from Mary alarmed Molly more than anything else that had happened to her that day.

"I really . . . I do wish you wouldn't," she whispered desperately. Mary just grinned at her. It was the most frightening thing Molly had ever seen.

But before Mary could explain her idea, the vault door opened and Sally Donovan was shoved roughly inside. The detective sergeant collapsed on the floor as the door clicked shut behind her. Mary and Molly rushed to her side. The side of Donovan's head was slick with blood and her eyes looked bruised, but she was still conscious.

"You have a phone, haven't you?" Donovan complained weakly. "You might have warned me the bank was being robbed."

"We hadn't time," Mary explained. She and Molly gently pulled Donovan away from the door and propped her against the wall. "You poor thing," the young doctor said gently. She and Donovan had certainly had their differences in the past, but Mary was not one to hold a grudge. "Here, let's have a look." Fortunately, the robbers had not taken the time to search everyone's pockets. Although Mary's bag had been taken, she had an amazing array of medical supplies stashed in her coat. She quickly examined the injured woman, looking into her eyes, taking her pulse, and deftly cleaning the blood away and bandaging the wound. Molly watched admiringly. Sometimes she forgot that her friend was a skilled physician and not just a reckless adventuress.

Donovan explained that she had been shut into the back room with the safety deposit box and therefore had not heard a thing until one of the gunmen had burst into the room searching for anyone who might pose a threat. Donovan had not gone quietly. Molly was impressed. For all her faults, the sergeant was certainly not a coward.

"You have a concussion, and I believe, a cracked skull," Mary informed Donovan. "I need you to stay awake, but you must stay quite still, all right? The fracture is simple and linear, so it should heal nicely and you'll never know the difference. But you don't want to risk falling and possibly causing complications." She gave the sergeant a pain reliever and stood up. "Now, for that idea I was having."

She was interrupted by a signal from her phone. Molly was amazed.

"How do you . . . how can you have phone service in here?" she wondered.

Mary shrugged. "Mycroft had his people do something to it. It works everywhere; I don't know why." She looked at the text she had just received, and for the first time during this entire ordeal, she looked genuinely worried. "Oh, this is not good," she muttered to herself.

Molly thought that if Mary was worried, then something quite terrifying must be happening. Her stomach clenched with fear. "What is it?" she whispered nervously.

"It's John," Mary said, her voice full of concern. Now Molly knew something was dreadfully wrong. Mary never called her husband 'John' unless she was very upset.

"Is he . . . is he all right?" Molly was almost afraid to ask.

"He's found out about the bank robbery. He wants to know if we left before it began." Mary bit her lip, pondering. "He's worried."

Molly and Donovan waited for the punch line. It was several seconds before they realized that Mary had, in fact, already stated the problem that was disquieting her so very much. Obviously, all other concerns had paled in her mind; only John mattered, and nothing else.

"That's it? That's what's got your knickers in twist?" Donovan was incredulous. "Oh, God forbid John Watson should feel worried."

Mary sighed. "I don't want him to be upset," she said simply. "Last time I was kidnapped, he was mad with worry. I don't want to do that to him again. What on earth can I tell him?"

"Tell him we were well away from the bank before the robbers arrived," Molly suggested, but Mary shook her head.

"I can't lie to him. I've never lied to him." The young doctor frowned, thinking. "Ah, I have it. I'll tell him we're in a 'safe' place and he mustn't be such a worrier. He'll figure it out fairly quickly, but by then we should be out of here." She punched keys on her phone, sending the text.

"I admire your dedication to your spouse, Doctor," Donovan said, a bit sarcastically, "But, honestly, we have bigger things to concern us now than whether or not your precious husband gets upset."

Molly thought of a body on a slab with a neat little bullet hole precisely between its eyes and disagreed. "As a law enforcement officer, I should think you would be very . . . concerned whenever John Watson gets upset."

She watched Donovan consider that thought. They heard no more about the matter from her.

Mary apparently received a satisfying answer to her slightly deceptive text. "There, now to my idea," she declared, cheering up. "Sally, I'm sorry you've been hurt, but actually it plays right into my plan."

Molly objected. "Why must we have a plan? Let's just . . . sit here quietly and let the police rescue us. Isn't that what you told everyone else?"

"Don't be ridiculous, dear," fearless Mary whispered. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to start bringing us out one by one and shooting us. You know how this works. The police won't give in to their demands, so they'll have to make a show of force. Look at all these helpless people. We have a responsibility to them."

Molly did not know why she and Mary had to be the responsible ones in a group of so many people. But no one else in the vault seemed the least bit inclined, or indeed capable, of doing anything useful at the moment. They were all quietly panicking and Molly was just glad no one was hysterical.

"Here's what we'll do," Mary began, and her plan was soon set into motion.

Mary once more imperiously addressed the crowd. "I need everyone to move as far back from the door as possible, and I need someone who works here to give me the telephone number to the front desk." A timid young woman raised her hand. Mary walked over to her and crouched down in front of her, smiling reassuringly. "Don't worry, dear, you don't have to do a thing except tell me the number." She entered the number the young women related into her phone and walked away from the huddled group and pressed send. She put her mobile on speaker phone so that Molly and Sally could also hear.

"It's about time you got back to me!" a man's voice yelled into the phone.

"I'm not the police," Mary stated calmly. "I'm one of your hostages in the vault, and I also happen to be a doctor. You have a real problem you need to deal with here. That woman you chaps pistol-whipped has a fractured skull. I know you took her wallet and badge, so you are aware that she's Scotland Yard. Of all the folks in this vault, she is the one you least want to have harmed. You know the Yard will look after its own."

It was the first blatant lie that Molly had ever heard Mary tell. Molly was well aware that the one person the robbers should want to avoid harming was Mary Watson herself.

"Is she going to die?" the man's voice quavered. The man was on edge and ready to crack.

"She needs a hospital and she needs it now," Mary said firmly. "I can only do so much, locked up in here. But don't worry: I have an idea."

Molly giggled a bit hysterically at that. "Be afraid. Be very afraid," she whispered to the bank robbers. "Mary has a thought."

"You take her out of here and send her out to the police so they can get her the medical help she needs. That will be a gesture of good will on your part, and they may be more willing to make concessions for you. At least, it's worth a try," Mary explained.

There was silence as the two men thought this proposal over. "All right," the voice said at last. The line went dead.

Mary grinned at her companions. "Get ready! You know what to do!" she encouraged them. She and Molly positioned themselves on either side of Donovan, who now held Mary's shiny, new Italian stiletto switch blade in one hand, shielding it from view behind her other arm. She was weak and in pain, but she was a seasoned officer. She would do her part.

The door to the vault opened and one of the robbers appeared, his firearm moving from target to target as he faced the safe-full of victims. "Let me see for myself," he declared nervously, moving towards Donovan and trying to keep an eye on everyone else at the same time. Molly was pleased to see that he had left the door open a crack.

The robber stood in front of Donovan and then leaned over slightly to get a better look at her head. At Mary's signal, the three women moved simultaneously: Mary grabbed the man's gun-hand and wrenched it upwards; Molly grasped his other arm and twisted it behind his back; and Donovan revealed the knife, which she held up until the point touched his throat.

"Don't move," Mary warned him sternly. "Drop the weapon." The gunman did not comply, so Molly pushed him slightly forward. The knife-tip drew blood. "You're over-balanced. Molly has only to give you a good shove, and you'll fall right onto that knife," Mary informed him. "Sally may be hurt, but she can hold that knife steady. Drop the gun." He let his hand droop, and she took the gun from it easily. Holding it to his back, she fished her handcuffs out of one of her capacious pockets and handed them to Molly, who cuffed the man as swiftly as she could.

"Sit," Mary ordered, and he did as he was told. "Where is the manager? And is there anyone else out there with your chum?"

"No, ma'am. There's just the manager, and he's tied to a chair at one of the desks in the lobby," the man said earnestly.

Mary attempted to look stern. "I am a doctor. I know several ways to cause excruciating pain and still keep you alive. If you're lying to me. . . ."

Molly hid her mouth with one hand to hide her silent laughter. Her friend looked about as menacing as a week-old kitten. But the robber apparently believed in this kitten's claws and was appropriately frightened. "I'm not lying, I swear!" He declared.

"Okay, then, on to phase two," Mary nodded. "You two hold him here. Are you doing okay, Sally?"

Sally started to nod, changed her mind, and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Do it." She handed the knife over to Molly to hold and let her head fall back against the wall, exhausted.

Mary made another call on her mobile. "Hi, Greg. Guess where I am!" she exclaimed when Lestrade answered.

"I hate to think," he said dryly.

"I'm in the bank vault with Molly and Sally and the other hostages," Mary informed him. "We have subdued one of the robbers, and I'm about to check out the other one. He's got the bank manager with him, so I need to lure him away so you can burst in and arrest him without endangering anyone. I'll keep my phone on so you can hear what's happening and can come in at the right time."

Lestrade was beside himself. "Mary, I forbid you to do this. Stay in the vault and we'll take care of the rest. I mean it, Mary."

"Be reasonable, Greg. If you crash in here while the gunman is still with his hostage, he'll kill the man, even if just by accident. I'll be fine. I have a gun and I know how to use it if I have to. I'll let you know when the manager is safe and you can come in."

Molly could hear Lestrade's long-suffering sigh. "Mary, I swear. . . . you'll be the death of me. Literally. If John finds out I let you do this . . . ."

Mary chuckled. "I won't let him hurt you," she assured him. "Don't worry so much. Just get ready." She turned to her captive and said, "I'm going to sneak out of here now. In two minutes, you call your friend just as loudly as you can. If you don't, Molly here will gladly carve you up to her heart's content. She's a pathologist. She cuts up bodies for a living." She turned to Molly. "If he moves, stab him until he stops," she advised. Molly nodded, knowing full well that such drastic measures would be unnecessary.

She watched Mary slip out of the vault, leaving the door open, and disappear. When two minutes had passed, she nudged her prisoner. "Call him," she ordered. He did.

Moments later, the sound of the lobby door crashing in reached the crowd in the vault and two gunshots rang out. And then controlled chaos ensued, with the bank thronging with police and medical personnel. A pair of officers escorted the hostages out of the vault and into a conference room to be checked out and their statements taken. Some other officers took the captive robber into custody. An ambulance crew appeared and put Donovan onto a stretcher.

Donovan looked up at Molly as they carried her towards the door. "Good work," she commended with a faint smile. "Tell Mary I said so."

Molly wandered out of the vault after Donovan, looking for Mary. Those two gunshots worried her. She craned her neck to look over the heads of the milling crowd in the lobby. There was Lestrade, untying the bank manager, looking grim. There were more medical personnel treating the injured second robber, accounting for one of the gunshots. There was . . . oh, dear! There was John and Sherlock, also threading their way through the lobby, looking anxiously around. Molly rushed to meet them.

"Molly, are you okay? Where's Mary?" John said, his voice deep with concern.

"I'm fine. Mary was wonderful! She's . . . she's around here somewhere," Molly looked around again. Surely if something had happened to Mary, Lestrade would be with her and not with that pallid-looking manager. Sherlock impatiently pushed through the lobby to speak with the detective inspector.

"Mary!" John yelled, not willing to wait another second. "Mary! Where are you?"

"Captain!" Mary's voice carried across the lobby. She shoved her way through the chaos and threw herself into his arms. "Where did you come from?"

He shook his head indulgently. "Just who did you think you were fooling with that text? 'Safe place'. Naturally, we came at once."

Mary looked contrite. "I just didn't like you to worry." He quickly kissed away her concern.

"It's my job to worry about you," he reminded her gently.

"You're very good at it," she murmured into his shoulder.

"I've had far too much practice, haven't I?" he returned. He looked at Molly. "We saw Donovan. Quite a crack on the head. But you weren't hurt?"

"I'm fine," Molly assured him again, just as Sherlock and Lestrade joined them.

"Lestrade has been telling me about how you ladies captured the crooks single-handed," he commended them. "Very resourceful."

"It was a team effort. Molly and Sally and I pulled it off together," Mary said cheerfully. "It's all over now, though. Molly, do you still want to see a film? We can just make it if we leave now."

Molly nodded. "Yes, let's. How often do we get a chance for a girl's night out? We oughtn't to waste it just because of a . . . little delay."

Off they went, arm in arm, leaving the men in their lives to look after them.

"Hmm," Lestrade mused. "Guess that puts us in our place, doesn't it?" He wandered off back to work.

Sherlock looked at John, who seemed a bit bereft. "Dinner?"

John shrugged, smiling. "Guy's night out," he said.


	8. Benefit Dance

She stood by the punch bowl in the spacious, rented ball-room and frowned. Stuck working the refreshment table because of her recent injury, Sally Donovan felt cross and left out of the festivities. Which was odd because, every other year, she detested this fund-raising event and resented having to attend. New Scotland Yard, in order to prove its community spirit and fundamental concern for society, held this benefit event every year to raise money for a local rehabilitation center. Sally had nothing against drug and alcohol rehabilitation, of course, but why should one be forced to dance for it?

She ought to have been grateful, oddly enough, that her cracked skull and concussion had prevented her having to help organize the tedious last-minute details of the benefit. But to add insult to injury, quite literally, her usual role in planning this event had been taken over this year by that insufferable Mary Watson. Sally knew her resentment of Mary was irrational; but she couldn't help feeling that the bank robbery that had taken place while she, Molly and Mary just happened to be inside it was somehow Mary Watson's fault.

Now she watched the Boss, dancing with Mary, and seethed. Lestrade was enamored of that chit of girl, who knew why, and let her get away with murder. She was allowed free access to crime scenes; she received special treatment when she managed to get herself into scrapes; blind eyes were turned towards questionable actions on the part of her husband and Holmes when she was endangered. Sally felt the Boss had been compromised by his affection for the trio, and Mary in particular.

John Watson appeared at Sally's side and took a glass of punch, smiling at her in a friendly manner. She had always found him to be more amiable than his partner in crime; but since Sally, in spite of her injury, had helped Mary and Molly defeat the bank robbers, he had become even warmer towards her. She had often felt a sneaking admiration for Watson, in spite of his incomprehensible and questionable attachment to Sherlock Holmes. He was unfailingly polite and gentle in his manner, but when the need arose, he was easily the most dangerous man she'd ever known. She smiled tentatively back.

"Having fun?" he asked mildly. She shook her head.

"I hate these things," she admitted freely. "All these stuffed shirts, pretending to get along." He snorted with laughter.

"Yeah, I'm not much for this sort of thing myself," he replied amiably. "I'm just here because my wife made me come." He pulled good-naturedly at his collar and tugged on his jacket, chuckling. She knew this was not true. Although the then newly-wed Watsons had skipped this event last year, Watson himself had faithfully attended the three years previously, stoic and grim-faced as if marching into battle. He had always brought a date with him, and had always left alone. How things had changed since Mary came into his life. Into ALL their lives. . . .

Sally watched the woman in question; Mary was tripping over the Boss's feet as they danced and they were laughing hysterically together. She had to be the klutziest person on the ballroom floor. "Doesn't that bother you?" she asked tactlessly.

John looked in the direction Sally was indicating and laughed affectionately. "What, that Mary can't dance to save her soul? Nah, nobody's perfect."

Sally frowned. "No, I mean, the way she and the Boss get on."

John gave Sally a level look and smiled grimly. "Mary grew up without a father in her life, you know. If she's found someone to fill that empty space for her, I'm more than pleased." Sally raised an eyebrow. Watson was a man of the world, wasn't he? Ex-army, world traveled, experienced surgeon. How could he be so naïve?

John moved away, talking to some of the other guests, and Sally turned her attention to her sometime lover. There was Anderson, dancing with his own wife, of all people, that drab. His eyes, however, were roaming over the room, finally alighting on Mary Watson. Sally could swear she saw a bit of drool drip from the corner of his mouth. Bloody prat!

The Boss had accused her of being jealous of the Watson woman; and perhaps she was. And why shouldn't she be? What in God's green earth did everyone in London see in this little bit of fluff that they should stumble all over themselves to do whatever she wanted? Who, for example, was her own definitely EX-lover leering at this very moment? Not Sally Donovan; not, god forbid, his mousy little wife. No, it was none other than the (for him) tantalizingly unattainable weapons-expert Mrs. Watson that he was obsessing over, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. Disgusting!

And who had done such a fantastic job of pulling this event together in a matter of weeks that she drew the admiration of the Commissioner himself? Not Sally, who had organized this benefit annually for the five years previous to this, without ever receiving any recognition whatsoever. No, Sally had been on sick leave, thanklessly recovering from the skull fracture she'd incurred during that bank robbery a month ago. It was the intolerably perfect volunteer event chairperson Mary Watson who had apparently performed a miracle in producing this unprecedentedly successful event.

And who had come up with the idea to capture the bank robbers, which Sally had admittedly gone along with? Because, damn it, it had been a good idea and Sally had been injured and could not do much more than lie on the floor and let herself be patched up by the annoyingly efficient Dr. Mary Watson.

And who broke all the rules, collecting evidence by illegally breaking into a suspect's home, and received not censure but a mischievous wink from the detective inspector? And whose kidnapper was inexplicably declared dead by his own hand in the official report of the chief pathologist, in spite of the fact the man had a bullet wound in the exact center of his forehead, inflicted by a gun of a different caliber than the one in his hand—a hand suspiciously free of powder burns? Who was allowed to walk freely into the New Scotland Yard building and commandeer an interrogation room whenever she damn-well felt like it? That maddening, infuriating, exasperating, irritating Mary Bloody Watson.

She noted Sherlock Holmes stalking into the room with Mrs. Hudson on his arm, exaggeratedly stiff and formal and undeniably elegant. What a farce this whole thing was, she scoffed to herself. The freak escorted his landlady to a chair and then—oh, damn!—headed for the refreshment table.

"What are you doing here, Freak?" she snapped at him, aggrieved. "Did Ms. Watson threaten you or bribe you to come?" Even John, as proficient as he was at controlling the freak at a crime scene, had always been unable to coerce the psychopath into attending social functions; although, admittedly, perhaps the doctor had not really wanted to try.

The freak turned those weird, light-colored eyes to hers solemnly. "I came because Mary asked me to. Nicely," he intoned.

Sally scoffed. "Are you saying you'd cooperate with anyone who is nice to you?" she demanded.

"I am not saying anything of the sort," Holmes replied with great dignity. "However, you'll never know until you try, will you, how cooperative I can be when asked nicely?" He took a cup of punch and carried it to Mrs. Hudson, who smiled at him with inexplicable fondness.

"How are you feeling, Sally?" came a familiar voice at her elbow. She cringed. Why did Mary have to be so _nice_ all the time? And now, Sally had to feel grateful to the little so-and-so for treating her injuries at the bank, and for stepping in to help with this fund raiser while she was on sick leave.

"I'm fine," she lied. _Go away. Go away_, she thought belligerently.

Mary peered at the detective sergeant's eyes intently. "You should have a sit, dear. You're a bit peaky. That head-ache is still in effect, isn't it?"

_Damn._ Why did the woman have to be a doctor? And an astute one, at that? "I'm fine," Sally said more firmly, stubborn.

"I'll take over from you here. Go on and have a bit of a rest," Mary said encouragingly. Sally gritted her teeth. It was very tempting to do as the meddling little tart suggested—her head really was aching. But Mary Watson had shown her up too often already—capturing the bank robbers and organizing this benefit. At least let it not be said that Mary Watson could serve up punch better than Sally Donovan. She desperately needed to change the subject.

"Doesn't that bother you?" she asked, indicating the obviously straying John Watson as he waltzed with a lovely, strangely graceful Molly Hooper. The two glided effortlessly across the floor, drawing all eyes to themselves, easily the best dancers in the room and clearly enjoying themselves. Mary's dimples deepened.

"Oh, aren't they wonderful? I'm so glad they're having fun," she gushed happily. "I'm total rubbish at dancing. John's trying to teach me, but I just can't get the hang of it. It's not much fun for him, stuck with a partner that seems bent on maiming him." She smiled at Sally, ignoring the skepticism in her eyes. "Besides, this way I get to watch him instead of stepping on him. Isn't he beautiful?"

_Love is blind,_ Sally mused, not seeing what Mary saw at all; but she did not voice her thought. She was capable of tact when she chose to be. "You don't feel jealous?" she asked tactlessly.

Mary laughed merrily. "Of course not. I know he adores me. And we trust each other entirely," she stated confidently. Sally shook her head.

"And when you and the freak went off alone to Cornwall together—John was okay with that?" she persisted.

Mary chuckled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "My husband knows full well I worship the ground he walks on," she replied cheekily. Sally rolled her eyes.

"The freak tells me that this weird power you have over him to make him behave is that you're nice to him," Sally said sarcastically. "Are you asking me to believe that your control over him is just . . . niceness?"

Mary sighed, still good-natured but clearly tired of the subject. "I don't control Sherlock, or anyone," she declared firmly. "But I find that people respond well to kindness. They are more inclined to cooperate with you if they feel you have their own best interests at heart. People know it when you really care about them."

Sally considered this statement for a moment. She had always had to be extra tough, as one of the few women in a predominantly man's world. Being nice just didn't get you far in this job. It was true that Mary often got better results with kindness than Sally did with vitriol. On the other hand, Mary could be ruthless if she needed to be: Sally would never forget the look on that robber's face when Mary advised Molly to stab him if he moved and to keep on stabbing him until he stopped! Perhaps one could be tough with the bad guys and gentle with one's colleagues without losing their respect. Mary certainly seemed to have found that balance, with good results.

Mary giggled happily. "Watch this," she said confidingly, nodding to John and Molly. They were dancing closer and closer to where Sherlock was waltzing grandly with Mrs. Hudson. Sally noticed that John winked cheerfully at his landlady just as they passed closely by each other; then expertly, they smoothly traded partners, much to the obvious surprise of Sherlock and Molly, who found themselves suddenly dancing alone together as John and Mrs. Hudson moved swiftly away, innocently smiling. Mary laughed joyously. "There!" she cried triumphantly. "Mission accomplished!" Sally watched the new couple, looking awkward but not displeased, and thought they looked well together.

"You know what we have in common?" Mary was saying softly. "John and Sherlock and me, and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Greg: we were quite alone in the world before we found each other. Our parents are all gone, and we have two siblings among the lot of us, both fairly useless in the caring department. Not a grandparent, not an aunt, uncle, or cousin. Everyone needs family. We can be that for each other. There are many ways of caring other than romantically, you know. We all need those other ways as much as we need romance."

Sally had thought that Mary had simply been born under a fortunate star—blessed with a pretty face, a quick and clever mind, and a talent for manipulating people. But there was Sherlock Holmes, also easy to look at, admittedly more than clever, and a genius at manipulation. But only a very few would bend over backwards to please the freak the way they did to please Mary Watson. Perhaps it did pay to be nice.

Perhaps it would be worth trying.


End file.
